


the wrong side

by seenonlyfromadistance



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, On The Barricade, Violence, everyone dies, kinda graphic I guess so fyi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:45:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seenonlyfromadistance/pseuds/seenonlyfromadistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel and Jehan end up on the wrong side of the barricade, at the wrong moment. </p><p>(The Last Verse of Prouvaire and the Last Fight of Bahorel)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the wrong side

No one is there for him, when he goes. 

Everyone is busy, and rightly so. There are gaps in the barricade which must be filled and fortified, weapons must be taken account of, men must be arranged and instructed. It's all very sensible and thought out.

He hadn't been thinking when he'd charged ahead. There had been soldiers pouring in, and he moved to block them, forcing them back through the sliver of open space which they had come through. He gets off one good shot, and the spatter of their comrades blood and brain on their own faces sends most of the soldiers reeling back. 

He follows, a grin spreading across his face as he finds himself in his natural element. If the soldiers are this easy to repel, maybe they have a chance after all. 

"Fill up this gap!" he shouts to some startled looking volunteers behind him, who nod and start to find loose furniture to rearrange. He storms forward, feeling powerful and able as ever in his life. The soldiers attempt to press forward, and Bahorel, hardly armed, puts his fists to good use. He ducks rifle barrels and crashes his elbows into teeth. Someone calls his name and he turns to seek out the voice.

It is at that moment that the sharp end of a bayonet finds his chest, plunging in just under his ribs. It is more surprising than painful, and his eyes go wide. He still has a pistol in his hand, but surely there are no shots left in it. The soldier before him, who still has his bayonet buried in his chest, is looking up into his wild eyes with fear in his own. They stare at each other for a moment, before the soldier, with a jerk of his arms, pulls his rifle free. Blood begins to pour and both look down at it briefly. 

Now the pain is beginning, sharp and terrible with each breath, and Bahorel knows that nothing less than his death is finally upon him.

He cracks his pistol against the soldiers face, and watches with satisfaction as blood flies from the man's mouth. The solider, younger than Bahorel probably, glances back to him with disorientation, a gash on his cheek and his face covered in blood, before scampering off to rejoin the others. 

_Hopefully,_ Bahorel thinks as he collapses back against the barricade, _I have broken his jaw. It would only be fair, as he has certainly killed me._

It is not difficult to form those words in his mind, and to believe them. His knees feel weak and his head is beginning to swim. He has been hurt before, and quite badly, but he knows this is the worst of wounds. This is the wound that will finish him.

"I shall miss the best of it," he says to no one. "I shall be dead before the best of the fighting." 

Around him, the world has quieted. The battle is over for now, and distantly he can hear the voices of his friends shouting to each other, taking counts.

The clear voice of Enjolras rings through the air-- their golden leader is never hard to hear: 

"Where is Prouvaire? Where is Bahorel?" 

Then, Bahorel realizes that he has fallen on the wrong side of the barricade. As he is already as good as dead-- and, judging from the wetness on his chest and stomach and sliding down his legs, that must be clear to all who can see him-- no one will waste a bullet on him. But nevertheless, Bahorel is actually facing a line of soldiers instead of the crowds of his friends and fellow insurgents. The soldiers ignore him in favor of settling themselves back into line. He is no danger to anyone anymore. 

But there is a disturbance in the line, which Bahorel has to focus hard upon to decipher. 

There is some kind of tussle going on, and Bahorel's eyes finally land on something that makes it clear what's happened. A bright waistcoat, a delicate arm, a sweet face. 

It seems darling Jehan has fallen on the wrong side of the barricade as well. 

He is on his knees in the street and the soldiers have him held by his arms and by three rifles pointed firmly in his direction. Yet Jean Prouvaire is brave and he fights against their hold. He's shouting things, quite loudly, likely loud enough to be heard over the barricade, but Bahorel can't quite catch the words.

He's starting to have a hard time of it himself. But his stubbornness wins out; he will not die yet.

Surely Prouvaire is shouting some revolutionary phrases, some poetic metaphors of freedom and liberty. Surely Prouvaire is not shouting for help, or begging for his life. That would not be his way. 

Bahorel is finding it more and more difficult to keep his eyes open, but remains as focused as he can on Jehan, trying to draw some strength from the poets high held chin and his brave, fiery eyes. 

There is a scrambling from the top of the barricade, and Bahorel looks to see Combeferre and Enjolras peeking over the top. Surely they can see Jehan's fate spelled out as clearly as he certainly understands it himself. Combeferre tugs at Enjolras' sleeve and points over to Bahorel; Enjolras bites his lip and his furrowed brow deepens, and then he turns his attention back to Jehan.

Enjolras must recognize that Bahorel, at least, is a cause lost to death, but perhaps he thinks Jehan can still be saved. 

But looking at the group of soldiers that surround him, Bahorel thinks he knows better. They are about to die, the pair of them, Prouvaire and Bahorel, and they will be the first of their group to fall, and Enjolras will have to accept that. 

Bahorel is nearly there already, and Jehan is about to rush and follow him.

One of the soldiers puts the end of his rifle against the back of Jehan's head, and his face pinches ever so slightly. An officer swats the rifle away, and replaces it with a pistol to Prouvaire's temple; a more dignified death, perhaps is his thought. A more respectful execution. Jehan's jaw tightens at the feeling of cold metal against his skin, but he does not flinch or close his eyes. He stares forward, bravely still reciting the words of the revolution.

"Wait!" Combeferre shouts. "Wait!"

"We have a hostage! Wait!" Enjolras adds. They intend to make a trade, but it is clear the soldiers are not interested. 

"Vive la France!" Jehan calls. "Long live the future!" 

Jehan scans the barricade, and his eyes fall on Bahorel. He looks surprised, for the briefest of moments, and then his expressions falls into a deep sadness.

Bahorel tries to smile at him, but it seems a waste and a lie, and he is too weak to maintain it. Any movement hurts him, even the slightest of his lips.

When the report sounds, and Bahorel wishes he had closed his eyes. He is not as brave as Jehan, as it turns out. It would have been terrible enough to imagine it; having just recently blown out a mans brains himself, he knows what it would have been. He did not want the last thing he saw in life to be the mangled visage of his friend. Imagining it, in his final moments, would have been bad enough.

But no, he sees it. 

The soldier looks defiantly to Enjolras at the top of the barricade. 

"Love live France!" Jehan calls out, his eyes still locked on Bahorel but bravery back in place, and before he has finished the words the soldier pulls the trigger of his pistol, and suddenly there are brains on the pavement. A brain that wrote poetry and cultivated flowers in windowsill pots, a brain that laughed and loved and lived, now strewn thoughtlessly on the cobblestones. 

Bahorel cringes at the sight, and at the low groan which comes from Jehan's lips, and at the blankness which falls over Jehan's face as his body collapses onto the stones. His skull cracks against the street and his expression does not change. 

Up on the barricade, Enjolras and Combeferre look on with matching expressions of restrained horror. 

Jehan lies still on the cobbles, and the soldiers do not move him, even as blood begins to pool beneath his head. It stains his waves of hair and his paling face, and the soldiers retreat back down the street a bit farther, leaving his bloody body as a warning to the others. 

Bahorel looks down to his stomach, covered and stained similarly in blood. 

When he looks back to the top of the barricade, Enjolras and Combeferre are gone. 

So he is alone, when his time comes. Alone with his own blood and Jehan's corpse, lying across the way. _It's over, then,_ he thinks. His fight is done.

He wants to look away from Jehan, but can't. He's tired. He hurts. And at least Jehan's is a familiar face.

Perhaps the sky would be a better last sight. The barricade, perhaps. Or even Enjolras' blonde curls, against the backdrop of that red flag.

Anything would be a better sight at the moment of death than the crumpled corpse of darling, sweet, brave Jehan. 

Bahorel's head falls back as his eyelids flutter then close. He is alone as he slips from consciousness and within the minute, he is gone. 

 

_"We need to go get them."_

_"We can't."_

_"They're ours. We can't leave them over there. They need to be-- We need them here. With us. This is where they belong."_

_"I know, but--"_

_"Enjolras!"_

_"We can't! There's no safe way to collect them. They wouldn't let us negotiate an exchange of hostages, I doubt they'll allow a cease fire while we collect our dead. They'll shoot us in the street. We'll be slaughtered."_

_"But--"_

_"We would be killed. I won't risk lives for it. They're dead. They're already dead. Let them lie."_

**Author's Note:**

> decided to post this after laboring over a mostly-finished product for like, a week. Just love Bahorel and Jehan so much and that they both die alone and early seemed like... something worth exploring? Something they could share.


End file.
